


A Hand To Hold

by turnedherbrain



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Headcanon, Hugs, Humor, Love, Post-Canon, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 00:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19779907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: My headcanon for a post-s1 scene. Spoilers if you’ve not finished s1 yet ;)Anne and Ann return to Shibden Hall. Lots of happiness, hand-holding, hugs and emotion. Plus Marian and Ann save the day, in their respective ways :)





	A Hand To Hold

_Evening_

There had been much hand-holding today, but none more dear than this.

Laid on her – _their_ – bed, no longer separated by the rigid rules of society or the unblinking eyes of the outside word, Ann asked: ‘What _are_ we now? I mean: the usual would be ‘man and wife’…’

‘The ‘usual’. The ‘usual’?’ Anne sniffed, trying to remain academic and contemplative, when in fact she was nothing of the sort. She uncoiled her hair and unloosened her collar until she was half-undone. ‘What **is** ‘usual’? It is boring and provincial. It is… parochial. Why do you think I travel? It is to escape all of that! We shall not succumb to the usual. We shall be simply: us. Anne and Ann.’

‘Anne and Ann. Exactly the same, except you have an extra ‘e’. What does _that_ mean?’ laughed Ann, provocatively teasing her new ‘not-a-wife-but-simply-Anne’.

‘It signifies…’ mused Anne with the extra ‘e’, aware that she was being lovingly mocked. ‘Absolutely nothing. We are equals.’

…

_Daytime_

The festival of hand-holding had begun earlier that day. Firstly, in the carriage ride return from York to Shibden, when, curtains drawn tight and hands gripped, knuckles turning white – they used the rocking, bumping motion and the over two-hour journey time to ride and ride and ride until they were happily exhausted. It was the most rut-filled consummation.

Their much-maligned groomsman Thomas, and Eugénie, who normally couldn’t be persuaded to share a room, let alone a precarious wooden back-seat, balanced alongside one another companionably for the entire journey. Eugénie even graced the hapless Tom with the slightest of smiles as they disembarked, he handing her down with the most hopeful of palms held aloft, like a kicked pup who wishes his mistress to bestow him a treat. Anne, her sharp gaze viewing this little interaction, made a note to question her maid once again about her amorous intentions towards Thomas. The girl had protested a strong disinclination, but the fellow was tall, handsome, and clearly a fool.

Then, in Shibden Hall, hands were held out in congratulations. Her father was forthright and wanted to speak to her primarily about her felicitous union, then about the pit. Truly a Yorkshireman: swept emotions out of the way and practical business hobnailed in.

Her Aunt Anne was overcome with happiness and expressed her utmost pleasure at the surfeit of Annes now living at the Hall – they could make a circle, she laughingly suggested. Aunt neglected to tell them of the gossip in Halifax, the tide of which she’d personally stopped at the gates; she’d gathered the servants and instructed them to ignore any negative news only an hour earlier. Under this roof, in this Hall, love was love. No amount of town gossip would override that, and Aunt Anne didn’t care if the vicar, or the doctor, or anyone else who supposedly mattered, stopped coming for tea. They could all go hang. And as for Miss Walker’s relations (or was she Mrs Lister now?) they were a bunch of harpies the lot of them, and if they never tramped the moor road to Shibden then she was grateful for that deliverance.

Conspicuously absent in the heap of hand-holding and warmest congratulations was Marian. By the time the clock ticked round to four, Anne’s aunt and father were drooping and dozing on their respective sides of the fireplace, when the door to the Hall gaped and daylight dazed in. A figure in a voluminous red tartan skirt bloomed in the hallway, before marching quickly into the drowsy parlour.

‘You will not guess…’ Marian breathed delightedly, as soon as she saw her sister, all usual modes of greeting forgotten.

‘I am married!’ answered Anne in almost the self-same instant. ‘At least; we’re together in the eyes of god. We took the sacrament.’ She brought Ann forth to meet Marian, holding her hand like she was displaying a precious treasure.

‘I **_know_**!’ exclaimed Marian, looking from one to the other without a hint of surprise, which struck the newly-sacramented couple as a very odd reaction.

Perching on the edge of a seat, and encouraging the pair to sit down opposite her, Marian retold what had happened, and how she’d found out their news before they’d had chance to deliver it. She’d been in Halifax that afternoon, when Mr and Mrs So-and-so of Holdby House had returned from York, much shaken as – _guess who they’d seen at church? – oh yes that’s right and – oh yes that’s right, first they took the sacrament together – nothing wrong with that you might think – but then they were explicitly **hand-holding** in the aisle! (well, hand ‘brushing’, which is as near in god’s eyes to hand-holding) – imagine… in the house of god – the **scandal**!! _

‘And all of this happened in the bank, in front of the bank full of customers by the way.’ Here, Marian paused for breath and requested a little brandy, although Anne wondered if she wasn’t also milking it for a reaction from her rapt audience. Ann was staring wide-eyed and practically unblinking. Aunt Anne had woken from her nap and was leaning forward, her blanket almost fallen to the floor. Even father was pretending not to listen with one eye half-open, though he couldn’t really hear anyway.

‘And then,’ Marian sounded like she was concluding, ‘and then I’d had _quite_ enough. Quite enough of this person – this stranger! – maligning the good names of my sister and Miss Ann Walker. (Or is it Mrs Ann Lister now? Anyway…) By this stage, it will not surprise you to know, Mr Christopher Rawson, that pantomime bully, was standing in the midst of the bank as if it was a bear pit, actively _encouraging_ this vile slander!’

‘Cut to the end, Marian,’ muttered Ann, seeing the terrified looks on the others’ faces.

‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Marian, a flush arising on her face, whether from the anticipated victory, or her proximity to the hearth fire, or the slug of brandy, Anne could not tell. Marian took a hefty in-breath and paused.

And looked around her audience.

And paused.

(Anne peers out at the reader momentarily and sighs. ‘What do you think?’ she whispers to you. ‘ **Definitely** milking it.’)

‘So,’ continued Marian. ‘I strode up to Mr So-and-so, the hateful slanderer, and Mr Christopher Rawson, who without a doubt was already _sodden_ with drink…’

‘Marian!!’ interjected Anne, losing her patience.

‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Marian. ‘And I said this to them:

_‘I am proud. Proud! To bear the Lister name. I am proud to be Anne’s sister. And I am even prouder that she has met, and has made a connection with, someone who she loves. Someone with whom she has now been blessed before god. Someone whose hand she can hold._

_Dear god, **if only** she could live in a society where she could do that without fear. Without fear of gossip; of lack of respect; of reprisal. **If only**. _

_Look to yourselves, gentlemen. Do you consider yourselves loved? **Truly** loved? Because that’s all that matters, in the end. That’s truly all that matters. Love. Someone to love you in return. A hand to hold.’_

When Marian finished retelling her speech, there was a hush in the room, for everyone felt the absolute truth of it. The small group of servants gathered outside the drawing room door hardly dared breathe and stood close in solidarity.

Eugénie inwardly regretted the times she’d been horrible to her fellow manservant and pledged to be kinder. A tear escaped Thomas Booth’s eye and he wiped it away hastily, remembering his beloved wife long gone and giving thanks for his daughters’ cheerful presence. Everyone made a silent, personal vow, moved by Marian’s words.

Marian herself sat for some moments, then walked out of the room and, scattering the waiting, watchful servants, escaped into the outer yard. Anne was close behind and caught hold of her sister’s hand with surprising tenderness. They stood opposite one another, less than a foot apart but not antagonistically: there was an understanding forming.

‘Marian. What you did… what you said… it was the most wonderful thing…’ Anne wasn’t given to emotion; she was stemming the saltwater pricking her eyes.

‘It was nothing, really. I spoke from my heart. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. There will be repercussions…’ Marian looked doubtful now, questioning her earlier tenacity of spirit.

‘ **We** can deal with those. You know, Marian, I sometimes think we were born into the wrong age, you and I.’ Anne took hold of her sister’s other hand, giving both a reassuring squeeze. The tears were falling freely now and she let them drop unhindered.

‘Dearest sister,’ Marian responded. ‘I know we have our differences, but I will always, always love you.’

‘And I love you,’ Anne confessed, drawing Marian into a hug. She had a sudden realisation that she’d been everyone’s champion and protector for so long, she’d forgotten what it was like to have someone stand up for _her_ ; protect her. And it felt good.

Ann had been standing quietly by the doorway to the Hall, unsure of her position as yet, and seeing her from the midst of their sisterly hug, Marian did what any northerner would.

‘Oh, come ‘ere!’ she smiled, motioning with one arm extended out in welcome, until Ann was soon enfolded into their joint embrace. They stood there in the yard for several minutes, hugging, swaying, and laughing tearfully. The servants, now watching covertly from behind the kitchen casement, looked on in collective bemusement.

‘‘s a bit queer, ain’t it?’ said one, recently arrived at the Hall, their face scrunched up at the sight.

‘Get used to it!’ huffed Elizabeth, taking a pail to the fireside and dowsing the grate’s leaping flames a little. She’d been with Mistress Anne on the Continent and seen much, much more of the _je ne sais quoi_ than this.

…

_Evening_

Laid on their bed, holding hands, they were truly equals. Anne and Ann; the extra ‘e’ of no consequence. Soft skin, softer lips, softest smiles: all of this happiness sealed by the sacrament that they had taken together. Not a traditional ceremony, but still a _to have; to hold; to be_.

‘Anne?’

‘Hmmm?’ The sound of her name was a small distraction from seductive strokes on bare skin.

‘The pit…’

‘My goodness! It’s our wedding night, as near as god’s given us, and you want to talk about the pit?’

‘Yes.’ More strokes; fingertips gliding sinuously. ‘I can see a slight furrow of worry on your face. Here.’ Ann traced a line down the bridge of Anne’s nose, with a confidence she didn’t have before Scotland.

Whatever had changed, reflected Anne, it was a welcome change. Sighing, she relented: ‘Then let us make this a brief conversation, as ‘the pit’ is a topic unsuited to the bedroom.’

‘Oh. ‘Unsuited’? How… traditional and **_parochial_** of you,’ teased Ann, her index finger twirling around a gleaming golden ringlet.

Anne chose to ignore both the touché response and the ridiculously flirtatious body language. ‘Yes, well. You know of the current situation. My father thinks to put more money into the project would be madness. I’ve already put up the Hall as collateral against the existing loan. The only way to recoup the money is to commence mining work and sell the coal. But we have no further source of funding. That’s it.’

‘Let me help,’ insisted Ann, shifting on the bed so she could hold tight to Anne’s curled-up hand, willing the fingers to loosen and relax.

‘I feared that’s what you would say.’ Anne shook her head, raising it from the pillow as a weak form of rebuttal.

‘Shhh. I insist.’ Ann shook her head more vigorously in response, pressing her lips to Anne’s to seal the promise. ‘End of conversation.’

Subject to this tender persuasion, under this touch, Anne’s fingers slowly, slowly unfurled, like the tendrils of plants which, lying long-shadowed, were finally given sunlight.

No more words now. No more talk. Now was a time for kisses, for sighs; for a lingering, gentle consummation. Anne brushed a stray curl from Ann’s forehead, as curved together they slowly slid into sleep, hands held like they’d never let go again. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic because of the scenes in 1.08 which were a deliberate contrast: the traditional wedding of ‘man and wife’ which could be publicly celebrated, vs. the sacrament Anne and Ann take together and the way they can’t be seen even to hold hands publicly. The message of ‘love is love’ – upheld by Anne’s family in the fic – is forever important to fight for.


End file.
